


Three Hours

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The course of a rocky evening between two co-stars, former English majors and secret lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perdiccas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/gifts).



_6:46_

That's the time on Chris' watch when the elevator jerks mid-descent and comes to a loud, teeth-rattling halt, nearly jostling him off his feet. He half-expects the second hand on his watch to stop as well, but it keeps on ticking. It takes a second or two for his brain to catch up with the situation at hand, and John's groan interrupts the process.

"Fuck," he grunts, the hard-edged "k" sound sharp and pronounced as it hits Chris' eardrum like a needle, echoed off the metal walls. "Fuck," John repeats, banging on buttons with the flat of his palm. "It's stuck."

"Press the alarm button," Chris suggests. John does and nothing happens. Chris' mouth twitches. "Blackout, maybe?"

"Terrorist attack seems more likely. With my luck." John sighs and looks down at himself, adjusting the hem of his button-down. "That'd be typical. Dying on a day when I'm not even sure if I'm wearing clean underwear."

"You're not."

"Dying?"

"Wearing clean underwear."

The brittle air of the small space hangs heavy between them. Chris closes his eyes and wishes he hadn't chosen today to break it off with John.

 

 _6:32_

"Yeah, no, I get it," John mutters, pulling on his ugly, floral button-down shirt. "You don't want to share. Right? I was wondering when you'd get tired of it, honestly."

Chris balls his cardigan in his hands and watches John, stares at the stiff collar of his shirt. He fucking hates that shirt. John always jokes that he wears it because he knows Chris will be anxious to rip it off, which, in turn, has made Chris fond of it over time. It hurts, the way John can just change Chris' mind about things like that with a joke or a crooked little smile, a cock of his head as he says something both smarmy and sweet.

"So, that's it, then?" he cajoles. He can't help but needle John about this, just a little. He's not the bad guy here; he gets to make someone else feel bad if he wants to. "You're not even going to fight with me about it? Fight _for_ me?"

John finishes with his buttons and laughs, turning to face him. Just that one laugh makes Chris regret saying anything, everything.

"You're not being realistic," he says. "There's nothing to fight for. I can't just...I _can't_."

"I know." Chris buries his fingers in the fabric, grinds the skin under his nails against the cotton's weave. He tries to back track, try to make it into some kind of joke, the way John has taught him. "Come on, though—don't you want to see me play the role of the jilted lover for a minute? Mascara running and whatnot, draped over a fainting sofa?"

John grabs his jacket, the last of the rumpled pile of clothes carelessly tossed onto the armchair. "Dude. I think you already forget that _you're_ the one jilting _me_." He puts the jacket on and Chris looks away, exhaling as he pulls on his sweater, bunching the sleeves at his elbows.

"You know what? You're right. Let's just go."

"Chris, come on..."

"We're gonna miss the fucking party, John."

For once in his life, John doesn't look amused or jovial at all; there's not a trace of a smile on his face. He glances at Chris with dark eyes and nods curtly, walking through the opened door of the hotel room, out into the corridor and toward the elevators. Chris kind of hates the fact that he has no choice but to follow.

 

 _7:12_

John keeps rhythmically pressing the alarm button, over and over, and it's driving Chris crazy. Absolutely batshit crazy.

" _John_ ," he growls in warning, from the other side of the elevator, "fucking _stop_. Nothing is going to _happen_. It's not funny or cute."

"At least I'm trying! What else am I supposed to do, stand around and grow a five o'clock shadow like you?"

"Jesus," Chris says, laughing faintly. He feels so tired, dealing with John. Dealing with this. It's like talking to a sarcastic teenager at the best of times. "I dunno what I ever saw in you," he grouses. Across the way, John purses his lips in something that reminds Chris of anger.

"Really, Pine? Really. You're going to pull out lines like that when I can't just flip you off and walk away."

Chris narrows his eyes. "You _would_ walk away, too. That's your favorite thing."

Now John is the one who laughs, throwing his hands up. "God, you're such a little _bitch_ sometimes. I swear, if you didn't have that massive cock—"

"You mean the one you love getting rammed up your ass?"

"—I'd say you were a woman. Fuck you, Chris. Shut up."

"So say it. Say whatever the fuck you want. Now's your chance."

"No, I don't...no."

They both go silent and Chris starts to feel a little claustrophobic. He shuts his eyes when John starts clicking the elevator's buttons again, gripping the metal railing hard with both hands, trying to tune it out.

 

 _6:11_

There's nothing better on Earth than watching John undress. He's so elegant, his frame relatively slender and limbs lithe, but his entire body firm with smooth, toned muscle, nothing short of masculine. After the first few times, when Chris had finally grown less frantic and desperate to get to the bed (or shower or coat closet or back wall of the trailer, in the dark, cigarette smoke hovering like fog), he watched John disrobe for the first time and quietly admired the way his T-shirt seemed to hang slightly yet cling to his body at the same time, the collar drooping low enough to give Chris a teaser of things to come.

John steps out of his jeans now and watches Chris watching him, a playful smirk on his face. "You know it freaks me out when you do that, Pine," he says.

"Do what?" Chris teases, smiling wide. He's already undressed, save for his boxers, stretched out on the mattress and appreciating the view beyond the foot of the bed. He crosses his legs at the ankles, propping his arms behind his head.

" _Study_ me. The way you do."

"I'm a student of nature."

"Uh, you're a _freak_ of nature."

He'd complain but now John is crawling over him and the only things separating them are two thin layers of cotton and god, it feels good. Chris wraps his fingers around John's sides and rolls his hips, already stuttering at the weight of their cocks pressing together, like hot, burning magnets, seeking each other. He tips his head back when John's mouth trails over his neck, almost as hot, holding back from leaving marks, as always.

" _Fuck_ ," he groans, unsurprised to feel himself fully hard already. John huffs a breathless laugh beneath his ear.

"Eloquent," he murmurs. Chris rolls his eyes, tugs a little on the fine hairs along the back of John's neck, one of his favorite spots to touch.

"Fuck _me_. Better?"

"That depends." John angles his hips, dragging them back and forth against Chris' until he wants to scream. "Is that what you want? My stiff cock inside you? Hitting your sweet spot until you forget your own name? 'Til you come all over yourself?"

" _Ungh_ ," Chris moans, already reduced to incoherency. He's always amazed how John—mild-mannered John, coolness personified—can just turn his spine to jelly. He gasps when fingers twist at his nipple, bucks up without reserve. Then John gasps, too. "Yes, please, _please_..."

"Shh," John says, like he's going to take care of everything, and then he does—Chris shuts his eyes for a few moments and when he looks up again, there's no trace of underwear between them and John's preparing himself, slicking up his condom-covered cock. He moves to ready Chris as well, his fingertips grazing his hole for only a second, until Chris makes a strangled sound and grabs his wrist, pulling him closer. John laughs, light as cotton candy. "Okay, I get it. Needy bastard."

And John does get it; he's got _Chris_ , sinking into him with a slow precision that makes him want to throw his head back and moan loudly. So he does. He hooks his legs around John and clenches sweaty fingers in his hair, swiping his wet, chapped mouth along that finely sculpted jaw. John moans shakily, quickly picking up speed because it's hard to deny this sensation for very long. When Chris indicates the best angle with a veritable roar of pleasure, John keeps at his target until everything comes to a head in a swift and bright flash that feels like strings of dynamite going off throughout Chris' body. As predicted, he comes all over himself, and John, too.

" _Jesus_ ," John grunts. He mumbles something about Chris being fucking beautiful or nimble, but most likely beautiful, and then he thrusts hard and fast, reaching up and pressing his fingers to Chris' half-open mouth. Chris opens his mouth to suck at the long and tapered digits as directed, and then flinches against a flash of gold in his line of vision, so bright it burns his eyes.

"Nuh—" He turns his head away instinctively and John curses under his breath, shifting back momentarily to wrench the wedding band off his hand. "Fuck did I tell you," Chris hisses, his voice hoarse.

"I forgot," John says. He squints down at Chris. "Let me finish...please?"

Chris licks his lips and nods once, squeezing his thighs around him. "Come on," he instructs, annoyed now. He despises the quiet, satisfied moan that leaves his throat when he feels John come, buried inside him.

He wants to wipe off the mess on his stomach with that fugly fucking shirt, but it's all the way over on the armchair, so he uses John's underwear instead.

"You're mad," John observes when he's come back to himself. Chris rolls his eyes and tosses the stained boxers at him.

"We're late."

 

 _8:02_

"It wasn't going to work anyway."

Chris looks up suddenly from his seat on the floor. John's still standing, leaning against the wall in the corner near the elevator's controls. Nothing has happened in over an hour—it's possible no one even knows they're stuck in here. Neither of them has breathed a word in over forty minutes. Chris almost nodded off at one point, listening to the surrounding silence, the absence of the gentle hum that indicates working machinery.

"Yeah. I know that." He frowns, sucking on his tongue. "Perfectly aware of the fact that you're—"

"It's not even that," John interrupts. He glances over at Chris and exhales, scuffing his foot along the floor. "I didn't—I never took the time to know you. I mean...I know your birthday. Your middle name. I know you always got Cheetos from the studio vending machine."

"You got Dipsy Doodles," Chris murmurs. He was shocked the first time he ever saw John eating them; he didn't even know they still made those things.

"Right." John quirks a tiny smile and Chris feels his heart being crushed under the weight of its simple beauty. "But like, I don't know too many other things. I don't even know where you went to school."

Chris sighs and runs a hand over his face. "UC Berkeley."

"No shit," John says, mouth agape. "Me too. What'd you study?"

"English. You?"

"Same."

They look at each other for a long moment, mutually impressed and surprised. Chris laughs when he realizes how alike they really are—two actors on the verge of burgeoning careers after years of struggle and failure, out there hustling for parts among other former English majors.

"Class of '02," he says. John groans from his corner.

"Now I feel old. Thanks."

"You are old. You remember when Dipsy Doodles were all the rage."

"I fed them to my pet brontosaurus." John sighs and slides down the wall, looking a lot more relaxed than he did a few minutes ago. Chris likes it much better this way, even if he's still annoyed—even if he's officially done with him. John nods to himself, drums his fingers against the tops of his knees. "Let me guess: poetry concentration."

"You got me," Chris says, nodding as well. The words are coming easily now, and he's surprising himself with how generous he's being with this information, these little pieces of himself. "Did my thesis on Merrill."

"Huh. Wow."

"How about you?" He thinks for a moment. "Victorian?"

"Actually, I specialized in Chaucer."

Chris blinks at him, wide-eyed. "You're kidding. You can read Middle English?"

"Like a champ. Well, I'm rusty, but..."

They pause and exchange a small smile. Chris wants to ask if John will read some to him one day, but there's really no call for that, is there. As noted, he's done with this—with John. Officially. He looks down until John pipes up again.

"I would show you some time, if you wanted me to. I mean, I can."

"How do you know what I want?" Chris says, lifting his gaze again. Across the small space, John rubs at his chin.

"I know some things," he says.

 

 _6:04_

There's a moment when Chris' back hits the hotel room door that he thinks he could do this—this, right here, with John and only John—forever.

John looks at him like he's a gift waiting to be unwrapped. And he's so fucking _patient_ about it that Chris can feel his toes vibrating inside his shoes.

"What are you waiting for?" he asks. John hesitates, sliding his fingertips over the pearly buttons of Chris' shirt, as if testing their roundness.

"It's not often that we don't have to rush," he murmurs. Chris smirks and nips at his mouth.

"Actually, we do. Cast party tonight, remember?"

John sighs dramatically and starts pulling at the buttons he was so gingerly touching moments before. They don't stand a chance.

"Well, if we have to, we have to," he pretends to grumble.

Chris laughs and pulls him in by his belt loops, seeking out that warm mouth.

 

 _8:51_

"God, his face was amazing, wasn't it? Where did Karl even get a dildo that color?"

"If I've learned anything from this experience, it's that there's a lot more to Karl Urban than meets the eye. He _knows_ things."

Chris giggles, feeling a little punchy and tired. The memory of walking Zach into his trailer, where a green dildo was waiting for him on the bathroom sink—a very pale green, too, unusual for a dildo, not unlike the supposed color of a male Vulcan's member—with a note taped to the mirror about _getting in touch_ with one's character, is still one of his fondest yet. Quinto damn near choked on his venti soy latte.

"Karl's amazing. Hell, everyone's amazing." Chris ignores the obvious underlying statement there in favor of checking his watch. "Fuck. We're so late. J.J.'s gonna kill us."

"Anton's gonna kill me. I promised I'd introduce him to some girls."

"Stop corrupting the youth of America, John."

"It's my job! Bruce and I have to do our best, as the resident old men."

Chris smiles and tips his head back against the wall. "You're not old. Old men don't...well, they don't fuck like _that_."

"Ha, wow. That's, um...that's explicit."

They both laugh at the same time. Chris laughs a little too hard, maybe, but hell—they've been trapped in this oversized tin box for over two hours without a single sign of rescue and it's getting a little warm, the air growing thin. Any distraction is a good one, and he and John have been each other's distractions for a long time, now. Or maybe it just feels like a long time.

When he focuses again, he realizes John is staring at his mouth.

"Do you think maybe we entered another dimension?" he asks, his heart beating faster. "Maybe we're in a new place now. We left everything back there behind."

John chews on his bottom lip. "It wouldn't be the worst thing."

Chris knows he could forgive him so easily.

 

 _5:38_

"Hey," John says, stepping forward when Chris exits the main room, finally away from all the cameras and microphones and assistants running around with coffees and cell phones in hand. Chris tries not to let his grin split his face in two.

"Hey," he says in return. "Fun day?"

"Not really. Anton kept interrupting me and stealing my ginger ales."

"Poor Johnny." Chris mock pouts at him and looks around, finding a table with some leftover cans of soda. He goes over and grabs a ginger ale, bringing it to John. "A humble gift, Mr. Cho."

"Aw, Chris, you shouldn't have." John grins crookedly as he opens the can and takes a swig. Chris tries to look away from the movement of his throat, finding it difficult. "God," John says, swallowing. "How awesome would it be if I downed this and then threw the can somewhere behind me?"

"You might hit an intern by accident," Chris replies. John shrugs, as if he doesn't care. Chris smirks. "Or Zoe." And _that_ makes John reel back in fear.

"Oh, my god. She would skin me and make me into a rug."

"Not even a rug, I bet. A doormat. To wipe her designer shoes on."

"On the one hand, I'm scared for my life, but on the other hand, I'm _kind_ of turned on. This is all very confusing. Like ninth grade all over again."

Chris laughs. "What happened in ninth grade?" he asks. John gives him a sour look.

"We don't talk about that."

"Ahh."

Chris takes a moment to look around at all the people buzzing to and fro, realizing that it's the first time all day no one's hovering around him, pampering him or adjusting his mic or offering to bring him a snack. No one even seems to notice they're still there. He looks back at John and arches a brow.

"I got the continental suite, you know."

"Oh, sure. Just 'cause you're the 'star' of the 'movie' or whatever," John chides, pulling out the devastating air quotes. "I'm right next to the fucking vending machine. Every time someone goes and buys a Coke, I hear it in my subconscious and think it's me buying the Coke in my dream. I woke up at four in the morning today and I had to piss like a racehorse."

"Uh huh." Chris swipes the ginger ale from John's grasp and licks at the metal rim of the can slowly before pressing his lips against the open mouth, taking a slow sip. "That's fascinating, John. So do you want to see my suite, or what?"

John tears his gaze away from Chris' lips long enough to raise an eyebrow. "When have I ever not wanted to see your suite?" He waits for a beat. "We're talking about your dick, right? You said 'continental,' so I assumed."

"Oh, totally. It's like flying on the Concord."

"Man, you are so right."

Chris suppresses his laughter somehow; John has taught him quite a bit about keeping a straight face in humorous situations, though it's a lot easier to do when he's with people who _aren't_ John. He folds his arms over his chest and nods toward the ginger ale, his eyes going wide in surprise when John does as he suggested earlier and chugs the rest of it, tossing the can's empty carcass behind him.

Then they run for the elevator.

"Did I hit anyone?" John asks, breathless, when they catch one just as it opens.

"Bana, I think," Chris replies, hitting the button for his floor. The doors start to close.

"Cool, glad it wasn't anyone important."

Chris wonders for a half-second if there's a camera on them, before John grabs his arm and pulls him in for a searing kiss.

 

 _9:23_

There is a camera. Chris throws his shirt in its general direction and laughs in happy surprise when it actually catches on and covers up the lens.

"He shoots, he—"

"Focus, Pine, focus," John growls.

And then Chris adjusts his gaze to the vision of John lying beneath him on the dirty floor of the elevator, shirt half-open and throat exposed invitingly. Something roils in Chris' gut at the sight of all that skin—skin that he's expected to never mar or bruise in any fashion. He plants his hands flat on either side of John's head and bends to sink his teeth into that naked flesh, making sure it hurts. John jerks with a strangled gasp, grabbing Chris by the scruff of the neck.

"God, you—you little _shit_...oh, fuck..."

"Don't pretend that you don't like it. That you don't need it." Chris leans up again, licking the taste of John from his lips. There's an angry, red welt growing on John's neck and it looks just perfect there. "I'm not playing this game anymore, John. Tell me the truth, for once."

"You want the truth?" he asks, and Chris is about to roll his eyes when John grabs his shoulder roughly, pulling him down for a hard kiss. Chris shivers at the feel of John's tongue slicking its way across his front teeth. "I can't handle the truth," John murmurs.

And just like that, there's no need for talking anymore, because the truth is written all over John's face. He's flushed, mouth open as he pants, and there's a desperation in his eyes that Chris recognizes as the one he's seen in the mirror countless times before—that inexplicable but undeniable urgency, that longing for someone he can't—shouldn't—have for himself. And it's not fair and it's not perfect but maybe _perfect_ is something they don't get to have—not now, not together.

"Damn, John," he mumbles, fumbling to open his jeans. John does the same and when their cocks align for the first time, Chris shudders like he could jump out of his skin. He wants to bury himself inside John while they're alone like this, but John beats him to it, tucking his face against the crook of Chris' neck and reaching up to tangle his fingers in his short hair. Chris lets him, cradling the back of John's head with his palm and guiding them onto their sides so they can cling to each other with every limb necessary, just this one time, under the unspoken promise that it'll never be held against them, that they needed this.

It's suddenly so hot, the air in the confined space starting to get uncomfortably warm, and the sweat that blossoms between their bodies eases the friction while making it better. John's chanting Chris' name now and he sounds almost like a child, so quiet. Chris has a thousand and one questions he could ask— _what's wrong, why me, why won't you let me?_ —but he just presses his mouth to John's dark hair and holds on tight, staving off on his orgasm with gritted teeth until he feels John buck and spurt between their stomachs with a faint cry.

He pulls John's head up with a light tug and kisses him. And when John flicks his tongue against the corner of his mouth, that's when Chris comes, all the knots inside unwinding at once.

When he opens his eyes again, he's flat on his back and John's above him, a trickle of sweat visible over his upper lip. Chris reaches up to wipe it away and John ducks his head shyly.

"Hey," he says. "Did you feel that movement? I think they're working on it."

"Working on what?" Chris replies, still foggy.

"Fixing it."

Then they feel a strong jolt before the elevator starts to descend again. John curses and gets to his feet, grabbing Chris' shirt and handing it to him, blocking the camera lens with his hand.

"Hurry," he says. "Doors are gonna open soon."

"Okay, yeah."

By the time they reach the lobby, they're both fully dressed again, though Chris assumes they both look slightly sex-rumpled. They smile tightly as the hotel staff explains the power failure, extends its deepest of deep apologies with kind "please don't sue" expressions. Chris hopes like hell that the elevator doesn't smell like sex, or at least that no one notices if it does.

When the staff finally leaves them alone, Chris squints and looks down at his watch. Three hours they were in there, trapped and locked away from the rest of the world. Everything feels a little different now, slightly off-kilter, though Chris is sure he's imagining it. He squints and averts his gaze from the harsh glow of the bright lobby lights.

"Think the party's still going?" he asks. John shrugs.

"Probably. We'll just tell them what happened; they'll understand."

Chris nods and looks at him for the first time, rewarded with a thin but genuine smile. His eyes drift down toward the darkening mark on John's neck, halfway-visible over the collar of his shirt.

"Shit," he says. He bites his lip. "I didn't—um. I'm really sorry about the..."

"Yeah, yeah...it's okay. Really." John's still smiling, but it's enigmatic. "At this point, man...whatever happens, happens. Okay?"

Chris furrows his brow but nods. If John says it'll all be okay, the least he can do is believe him, even if it's not true. Either way, he'll just have to be patient—for John, he'll wait as long as he has to, just like always.

"Okay," he says, lips pursed. He adjusts John's shirt collar to hide the mark a bit more. "I have a feeling we smell like sex."

"That just means we'll be the life of the party," John replies, grinning. Chris laughs heartily, not bothering to hold back this time. It's the laughter that he's always loved most—the real laughter.

They walk into the hotel's main ballroom, side by side, heads held up high.

 

 _5:34_

It's been a long day in a series of long days. But it's fun; Chris has to keep reminding himself of this. Being an actor is fun.

"Okay, thanks, guys. That's a wrap."

The pretty brunette reporter shakes Zach's hand, then Chris', and someone comes over to help them remove their mics.

"I think I fell asleep for a few minutes during that last one," Zach says, sighing. Chris laughs and claps his shoulder.

"Power nap before the party, maybe?"

"Maybe. What are you up to?"

Chris shrugs, absently scanning the room for a certain someone's face. He tries not to appear overly relieved or excited when he finally spots John, standing by the exit and talking to someone. When John feels himself being watched, he meets Chris' gaze and nods, eyes bright; then it feels like there's no one else in the room at all. John smoothly wraps up his conversation, motioning for Chris to join him as he walks out the door.

"I'll think of something," Chris answers Zach. He's already rising from his chair, John's smile like unfiltered sunshine, guiding him across the length of the room.


End file.
